Half an hour later, John steps back to admire his handiwork. They're in the dermatology outpatient clinic, in a room which during office hours is used for UV light treatment. John had chosen it since noone would wander in there during the weekend, the room features cardiac monitoring equipment and it has a sturdy bed.

Justin, now wearing a set of ill-fitting scrubs instead of his usual security guard's garb, is currently trying to wiggle a blood pressure cuff onto Sherlock's arm. Sherlock is half-sitting, half-lying down on the gurney, screaming bloody murder after John had made use of a pair of cuffs belonging to Justin's guard kit to ensure there would be no escaping until the combination of cocaine and God-knows-what had left his system.

John had unceremoniously injected Sherlock with both naloxone and flumazenil, hoping to flush out at least some of what Moriarty had slipped into his drink or otherwise forced Sherlock to ingest. These antidotes didn't seem to have much effect.

"It's gonna be a long night," John warns Justin, who's already wiping sweat off his brow.

"For a hundred quid, this is easy," Justin tells him.

John has witnessed Justin haul out troublemakers twice his size from A&E and he isn't the least bit of worried about Justin being able to handle Sherlock.

John leans onto the bed rail. Sherlock stops the racket he's making and regards John with keen interest. "Let me go," Sherlock suggests.

"No. You're high as a bloody kite. I have to go and work. Justin will call the police in about three hours if you're lucid so we can start sorting out what happened."

John has already drawn up a set of toxicology samples from a vein Sherlock's arm. They will need to be replicated later. John will spare Sherlock from ending up with official A&E records of his visit, but as for involving the police, John is adamant.

Moriarty will be stopped.

John will stop him.

Because noone, noone gets to do this to his Sherlock.

The thought of James Moriarty stealing from Sherlock what Sherlock had clearly wanted to experience for the first time in his life with John, makes him sick to his stomach.

"Can't you stay with me then," Sherlock mumbles and bats his eyelashes.

John's indignation melts into oblivion.

Sherlock is now looking at him in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination, licking his lower lip. "Won't you... Stay?" he repeats, loading the words with such downright comedic innuendo that John rocks back on his heels and rolls his eyes, laughing.

Justin sits down, poker face well utilized.

"Call the anaesthesia emergency number if there's anything you need," John tells Justin.

Justin nods in aknowledgement. "Sure thing, Dr Watson."

"Just call me John. And in case you haven't met before, this is my boyfriend, Sherlock."

Saying it out loud wasn't all that difficult, was it?

John's phone rings. It's the OR floor supervisor. He's probably needed in theatre.

John steals a last glance at an indignantly huffing and eye-rolling Sherlock who has slumped against the bed, and hurries off to do his duty.

It's a tough night for all three of them. After a couple of hours of running around the OR floor John gets a chance to tear himself away to check on Sherlock and Justin.

He finds them kneeling in the ensuite of the phototherapy room, crouched over the toilet seat. Sherlock is throwing up with Justin holding him by the shoulders to keep him from keeling over.

"He says that the bugs have stopped crawling," Justin tells John, "I think he's coming down from it now."

"Good. Call the police in two hours. Let me know when they get here so I can give a statement, too. And tell them to come in through the staff entrance. If they start asking 'round A&E we'll be in deep shit."

"I assume you have your reasons for not signing him properly into A&E?" Justin asks and accepts John's nod as a sufficient explanation.

"Bed," Sherlock gasps, and attempts to stands up onto shaky feet. Justin grabs him in a fireman's carry as though it's the most normal thing in the world and delivers Sherlock gently back onto the bed.

John decides he's very, very fond of Justin right now.

Sherlock's eyes are closed. John lowers the bed's left railing and sits down on the edge of the mattress. Justin hooks Sherlock back up to the monitors. He's not even putting up a fight anymore. His heart is still elevated but not tachycardic. Blood pressure is back to normal. John breathes a sigh of relief.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

Sherlock's eyes flutter open. He's ashen grey and his hands are shaking. "Like something terrible is about to happen and I have no idea what. Also, some animal has burrowed into my skull and is clawing around."

"Residual paranoia, I'd say. It'll pass. I think it's mostly the cocaine doing it. You should try and get some sleep," John tells him quietly and runs his fingers through Sherlock's sweaty black curls. He takes care not to press his fingers too deep into Sherlock's scalp because he knows it's Sherlock's achilles' heel - his scalp is astoundingly sensitive and when John employs this bit of information just right, he can make Sherlock beg both for mercy and for more at the same time. Now is not the time, especially not with Justin watching them quietly.

At four in the morning, John shuffles back to the dermatology corridor. The trickle of patients into A&E has finally slowed down so it's less likely he'll be called in before morning to tend to a critically ill or injured patient. The OR floor is now empty, too since there are no urgent operations lined up at the moment.

Justin is reading a magazine while sitting in a chair in the hallway. The door to the phototherapy room is closed but not locked. Justin looks up when John walks up to him and yawns. It's contagious.

"He was that complaining my thinking is keeping him awake," Justin chuckles.

"That sounds like the Sherlock I know," John snorts and rubs his arms. When he's tired enough he always starts feeling colder than he actually is. Usually he brings an old cardigan from home for on-call shifts but he'd been so upset with Sherlock he had forgotten to grab one.

He quietly opens the door next to Justin's chair and peeks in.

The room is dark. The windows reflects some light from passing cars and in this dim glow John can make out Sherlock's sleeping form on the bed, his chest now moving up and down in a much slower rhytm than during those unfortunate hours after leaving the club.

The police had been by after midnight.

John had talked to them first and then they'd taken a statement from a somewhat composed Sherlock. The last thing he remembered was feeling significantly more inebriated than he should have after only having downed the Dirty Martini Moriarty had treated him to. As flattered as he had been by the attention lavished on him by Moriarty, he had been contemplating an honourable excuse to leave. He has a vague memory of going to the men's room, feeling slightly faint and very odd in there, and then suddenly deciding that Moriarty's offer of cocaine had obviously been the best idea in the history of humanity.

The officers had packed the blood samples John had drawn into an official forensics kit. John had told them that there was another staff member with potentially important information to the investigation, but that John would talk to him first before divulging his idendity.

John is quite certain that Anderson will be be game to try and bring Moriarty to justice, but he wants to be polite and ask first - Anderson had, after all, helped John even though he had been under no obligation whatsoever to do such a thing.

John steps back, leaving the door ajar and turns to Justin. "I'll take it from here. This is yours," John says and passes Justin a crumpled wad of twenties from his pocket. He'd popped down to the ATM in the adjoining building between surgeries.

Justin takes the bills, looking tired. "Take care, John," he says and wanders off towards the lifts.

John slips back into the room, lowers the bed railings once again and gathers Sherlock into his arms. The man is sleeping deeply and merely mumbles something when John maneuvers him into a position in which he is certain he can manage to carry Sherlock up a flight of stairs to the anaesthesia on-call room. The bed there is big enough for two.

John wakes up a little past nine in the morning when the on-call phone rings. The caller is the next on-call shifter who's standing right outside the door, not wanting to barge in in case John isn't dressed.

John stumbles out of bed, haphazardly pulls on his scrubs and then tiptoes to the door. He opens it just a bit, quickly passes his on-call phone to Dr Lucy Cole and informs her that he's going to use the on-call room for a post-call nap, which is not that uncommon a habit.

Once Dr Cole has disappeared down the hall, John locks the door, discards his scrubs again and slips back into bed.

He wonders idly if Sherlock will be feeling normal enough for the plan John has in mind. Even if he isn't, John hopes he will approciate the sentiment anyway.

Sherlock had accused him for wanting to keep their private life completely separate from their working environment and that the reason for this was embarrassment. John is going to disprove that, if Sherlock is willing. As for how, John thinks he knows just the thing.

Sherlock stirs when John begins walking his fingers down his spine. He turns around and regards John with a bleary expression.

"Morning, gorgeous," John says, smiling.

Sherlock swallows and coughs. "Are you still on call? What's the time? Do you need to go?"

John quickly moistens a dry patch on his upper lip with his tongue. The heavy air conditioning often makes him feels as though he's run a marathon across the Sahara. "I'm off duty now. Not a single call after four. How are you?"

"Fine," Sherlock dismisses. His gaze roams around the room, trying to catalogue these unfamiliar surroundings. "I remember you carrying me, then nothing," Sherlock tells him almost accusingly.

"Well you didn't do a whole lot of anything after that," John says, smiling and leaning in for a kiss. Trust Sherlock to disapprove of scoring a normal amount of sleep.

"You're being rather affectionate, considering we're technically at work," Sherlock points out and sits up. John wrestles him back down onto his back.

"Where do you think you're going?" John asks in a teasing tone.

"Home, presumably." Sherlock's gaze wanders to the ceiling. He has suddenly become a bit timid in John's eyes.

"How are you feeling? Honestly?"

"Are you going to be asking that every five minutes for how long exactly? Please tell me so I can employ a pair of earplugs until then," Sherlock says in an exasperated tone.

"I'm going to be repeating myself until you give me a proper answer." John begins unbuttoning Sherlock's dress shirt.

He and Justin never did bother to undress Sherlock. At first it would have been too difficult, and once Sherlock had calmed down they still decided not to bother Sherlock any more than they absolutely had to. A crumpled shirt had been the least of Sherlock's worries last night.

"Tired. Muscles sore. Nose congested."

"Not too bad, then," John concludes.

Sherlock looks wary but intrigued, as though he's had some sort of an epiphany. "You're hiding something."

"Kind of. In all seriousness, though, first we need to talk."

Sherlock groans and rolls his eyes. "Why?"

"You were upset with me yesterday."

"Well that was before you rode in on your high horse to the club."

"High horse? High horse? Fucking hell, Sherlock, I was just trying to-"

Sherlock flashes him a sly smile to reveal he was just having John on.

"I will admit that I'm rather taken with this chivalrous streak of yours," Sherlock tells him and entwines his fingers with John's. It seems that whatever fury Sherlock had been carrying has completely dissipated.

"Does that mean you would be up for a little... experimentation?" John asks.

Sherlock's gaze narrows. "You'll have to be more specific."

John untangles his fingers and sticks his hand under his pillow. When he pulls it back out, he's holding a packet of Durexes between his thumg and his forefinger. "Look what I nicked from the Sexual Health Unit waiting room."

Sherlock's pupils dilate slightly and this time the culprit is decidedly not cocaine. When he voices no protest, John sits up and continues the delicate operation is ridding Sherlock from the rest of his clothing. "I love you," he whispers, his lips briefly ghosting on Sherlock's shoulder before he plants a kiss there.

Sherlock is looking at John with a mixture of apprehension and adoration. John decides that he has never seen anything so lovely as Sherlock right at this moment.

"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened on-call room. People might talk," Sherlock points out.

"I should fucking hope so," John shoots back, and buries his head between Sherlock's thighs.

"How would you react if I became the boss?" John ventures to ask an hour later, while they're lying across the bed in postcoital bliss, the hospital-issue sheets underneath them now sweaty and crumpled.

"Judging by what has just transpired, in certain ways you already are the boss", Sherlock points out.

"I wasn't talking about sex, you dolt", John tells him and leans over to plant a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

"What then?" Sherlock turns to his side to face John, leaning his chin on his palm. The sheet slides to the side, revealing half of his chest. John smiles and runs his fingers along Sherlock's right collarbone, eliciting a shiver.

"There's a rumour that I'd be Anderson's rival for Clinical Director."

Sherlock frowns, taking in this bit of information. "I've actually heard that one a couple of times."

John is taken aback. Perhaps the rumour is not just Anderson's attempt at cementing his position, after all.

"Why would I mind? You'd be in a perfect position to make certain changes in this department so that the service could run more to my liking. I could influence you," Sherlock muses deviously.

John tugs at a handful of his curls playfully. "I'm not a doormat, you know. I'm not here to be your errand boy or let you do whatever you like."

"Well, you've certainly proven that recently," Sherlock says pointedly, flings away the sheet that's covering John's lower torso, and proceeds to prove that when it comes to certain private activities, John will still let him do exactly what he wants.

The next Monday afternoon John attends the meeting he's been dreading, but recently also looking forward to, thanks to the possibility that he might not be losing his job after all.

In attendance are the current Clinical Director of Operative Services and head of the anaestesia unit, professor Martha Hudson; Dr Lestrade as the head of neurosurgery, and the chairman of the hospital's board of directors who John has never met before.

The rumour mill's offerings turn out to be true - John is asked to consider stepping up to the position of Clinical Director of Operative Services, now that Professor Hudson is retiring. He is told that since it's not a strictly academic position, they are looking for an individual with outstanding leadership skills and a strong clinical skillset. "We need someone who gets along the staff and who's able to keep doctors from tearing each other's throats out," Lestrade explains. "You've managed to tame even Dr Holmes. That's quite a feat."

John tries to keep a straight face. Tame indeed. The methods he has lately employed in Sherlock's case are hardly ones he could ever use in the workplace.

After a lengthy discussion about hours, pay and other practicalities, John says yes to the job offer.

The enjoy a cup of tea before the meeting ends. After pushing away his cup, swallowing and straightening his spine, John clears his throat and explains that in the spirit of full disclosure he needs to inform those present that he's romantically involved with one of his future subordinates.

Professor Hudson laughs and Dr Lestrade chuckles.

"Do you seriously think our Mr Modesty was capable of keeping that fact to himself? We've known for a while, John, and it's not a problem since Holmes was already a consultant when he begun his training here. That means he hasn't technically been your subordinate until now," Dr Lestrade says.

John has nothing to add. They all shake hands and trickle out of the meeting room.

John is happy.

Sherlock is happy.

Anderson is royally pissed off for missing out on the promotion, but he still agrees to talk to the police. "It's for Jamie's sake, not yours," he scoffs when John gives him the phone number of the DI handling the case.

Two weeks later, the tabloids have a field day when "a renowned otorhinolaryngologist is arrested for an astounding series of high crimes". Sherlock agrees to testify, pointing out that now that his boyfriend is the Clinical Director noone can kick him out for having questionable taste in men. The five confused urological nurses he attempts to analyze this issue with seem to agree before scampering away promptly.

All in all, everything is exactly as it should be.

(And after some very physically taxing negotiations, Sherlock finally agrees to book them into a resort in the Seychelles for the holidays.)

- The End -